


Hope, Duty, Pride, Home

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: sga_flashfic, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-29
Updated: 2008-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team become parents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope, Duty, Pride, Home

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tale, Theorem, Promise, Plea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/117974) by [sheafrotherdon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon). 



> Thanks to dogeared for betaing!

**one**

When her muscles gather strength, communicate the irrevocable urge to push the child within her out into the world, Teyla struggles at last, shakes her head, mutters desperately, "no, no, not here. Please."

"Teyla."

She shakes her head, squeezes her eyes tight, grimaces as she fights the certainty locked within her frame. Her body knows its job, strains against her will, and she senses the relief that would come from surrender. But she cannot consent to deliver her child on the floor of a Hive; cannot acquiesce to the stain of Michael's designs on his life; cannot do her son this disservice; cannot, cannot.

"Teyla, _please_." Rodney's hand is warm at the side of her face, and she opens her eyes, meets his gaze. He looks terrified – pale and shaken, but kind, determined, and he swallows, squares his shoulders. "You have to."

He has no idea what he's doing. She wants to laugh, to _apologize_ , of all things, but whatever his skill as a midwife, she's grateful for his company, and her breath is almost a sob as his thumb grazes her cheek, as she nods her agreement and waits for the next wave of need to seize her spine.

"You're doing so great," Rodney tells her, babbling as he strokes back her hair, tugs at the blanket beneath her. "So great, and John and Ronon and Lorne and the others – they'll be back so soon and we can take you home . . ." His voice catches and he coughs to cover it. " . . . and we've taken care of your room, we've – "

"Rodney – " Teyla grips his hand as the need to push rises. "Time."

He blows out a breath, nods and looks around, brilliant mind no doubt running over a hundred scenarios, a thousand points of supposition and debate, but then he slides behind her, supports her with his bulk, reaches so that she can clasp both his hands in hers as she holds her breath and bears down with the strength of her mother, her mother's mother, all the Athosian women who have come before, who have dared to love and birth their children in a galaxy scarred by risk.

 **two**

They can sense the fortune of the Dis'tik the moment they step through the gate – an eerie silence hanging over the landscape, broken only by the plaintive call of the whipneer birds.

"Culled," Ronon says tersely, hand flexing by his gun.

John feels it too, the emptiness of the plains, the ringing quiet of destruction. "We'd better be sure," he replies, and they fall into step, Ronon on point, Rodney at his side, Teyla on six and the whipneers mourning in the bardak trees.

They find the first body in the fields, the second a dozen yards beyond it, and by the time they enter the village the dead are everywhere – half in and out of doorways, discarded on the streets, still sitting, perversely, on the benches in the square. The air smells of soot and fear, of burned bread and the acid scent of fuel.

"Full sweep," John orders. "Rodney, with me." And Teyla nods, heads to the left with Ronon by her side as John turns right, pushes open a kitchen door, begins the task of cataloging the dead in the hopes that they might find the living. It's a task they've undertaken far too often, and he knows they'll find nothing but pans burned dry and laundry flapping uselessly in the breeze. His gut begins to ache long before Rodney rakes coals apart in kitchen grates, turns off a faucet left running, tidies and saves each home for inhabitants never coming back, but with every kindness to the dead there builds a fury just beneath John's skin that they can't stop this, still; can't stack the odds. He kicks at a trunk, a lashing out that doesn't calm him the slightest – and as though he's jarred memory from the rafters and walls, a baby begins to cry.

"You hear that?" Rodney whispers, eyes wide, stilling in the doorway.

"Yeah," John murmurs, and he turns his head, listens carefully, crosses the room and pulls open a closet. The crying's louder now, the tired and fractious whimpering of a child who thinks no one will come, and John scrabbles at the laundry pile, finds an infant girl hidden beneath her father's socks, her mother's skirt, tiny hands curled into fists as if she's ready to strike at this world.

"Jesus," Rodney whispers. "They must have hidden her – must've . . ."

John pulls down a blanket from the high, sweet-smelling shelves; lifts the child and wraps her tightly, cradles her to his chest as he stands. "What do we – "

"We take her back," Rodney says, sounding breathless. "She'll be hungry, she must be hungry. Don't you think she'll be hungry by now?"

John nods dumbly. "Do we have – "

"We'll figure something out."

"Yeah." He looks up at Rodney. "We should – " He closes his eyes for a second, orders himself to think clearly. "We should take things. So that she knows who she is."

Rodney's expression is so fond when he opens his eyes again that John feels heat rush to his face. "I'll do it," Rodney murmurs. "I'll – there's a basket in the kitchen and I'll . . ." He taps his earpiece. "Ronon, Teyla? We've found a survivor – a child, we'll . . . yeah, in ten, by the square?"

And John realizes he's rocking the baby in his arms as though he knows the first thing about children, as though this is his inheritance, rather than guns.

 **three**

"You should've radioed," Ronon growls, looming impressively over Dr. Rios.

Except she doesn't seem impressed. "As Colonel Carter has already explained, we _did_. You know yourself that the atmospheric disturbance on K78 25 – "

"And it's early."

"Yes." Dr. Rios agrees, hand still held up in front of his chest, not touching but holding him in place as implacably as a dozen Marines. "Which is why it was necessary to act so quickly. The babies were in real danger and – "

Ronon tenses, grinds his teeth. "But they're okay."

"Ronon." Dr. Rios waits for him to meet her gaze. "They're fine. Everyone's fine. The babies, Jennifer, they're all – "

"Then let me see them."

"Only if you think you can go in there without raising hell and waking them up," she says, looking ready to take this to punches if she has to.

He swallows down a retort – she's only doing her job and he should be thanking her for all that she's done, but he needs to see them, needs the reassurance of sight and touch. "Let me see them," he says again, and she nods at last, moves aside.

Jennifer's pale, but he can see the rise and fall of her chest long before he's close enough to take her hand. He feels weak, now, standing beside her, rough fingers tracing the IV line that's taped in place, and he drags a chair closer with his foot, sits down heavily, bends his head to her arm and murmurs one of his grandmother's old Satedan prayers against her skin without consciously summoning the words to his lips.

"Hi, honey," Jennifer whispers, and he looks up, smiles at her in reflex since she's smiling at him.

"You okay?" he asks, reaching to touch her face.

"Sore," she says clumsily – she must still be drugged. "But hey, I'm a momma." She grins a little wider. "And you're a poppa."

"Poppa?" he asks.

She nods. "Earth word. Poppa."

He tilts his head. "I should've been here."

"Oh, now, none of that," she protests, patting his arm. "Couldn't be helped. Don't _blame_ you."

"Still."

"Shhhh." She blinks at him lazily. "They're perfect, y'know."

"Yeah?"

"Ten fingers and toes and little noses and everything."

He laughs softly. "You're on the good stuff."

"Ohhhhh yeah." She smiles. "You should kiss me now."

"Okay."

"Okay," she grins, and he leans in, sees her eyes flutter closed at the last moment, savors the sweet, familiar taste of her mouth as he seals what they've done, who they are with a kiss.

Someone clears their throat behind him. "Uh – Mr. Dex?"

He pulls back just a fraction, touches Jennifer's nose before he stands up and turns. There's a nurse at the foot of Jennifer's bed, two blanket-wrapped bundles in his arms, and it takes him far longer than it should to realize those are his children. "Hey," he says, nodding at the nurse – Browning, he thinks his name is, but what the hell, it's not important right now – and he's reaching forward, taking the babies, and they're tiny, _tiny_ little things, their eyes screwed tight, ridiculous hats on their heads, and he sits down, awed by them, looking back and forth.

"Popppppaaaaa," Jennifer sing-songs – she's blinking slowly, falling asleep again.

Ronon laughs softly, shushes his son as he stirs, looks back at his daughter. "You are Satedan," he whispers to them both, and his lungs swell with pride.

 **four**

"Another day, another portion of my intellect squandered on a group of people with the higher brain function of a grapefruit," Rodney sighs as they trudge back to the gate.

Radek snorts. "Come now. The Ganaag are progressing. Slowly, yes, but progressing all the same."

"If you call understanding that a sewer system should not be shut off at night like the town lights, sure," Rodney offers. "I can't wait to see where we are by harvest – comprehending the properties of vinegar and baking soda, perhaps?"

"Eishnel is quite bright," Radek says archly.

"Yes, well, there are aberrations everywhere," Rodney snaps. "And if she'd just give up on this business of _drawing_ everything she sees, we'd . . ."

"Her art is quite good."

"And takes precious time away from her studies of . . ."

"You have bought some yourself."

Rodney colors. "Beesh needed something for her walls."

"Aha. Yes, quite so."

"Shut up."

Radek, rudely, just laughs at him.

"It would be fine, all of this would be fine if I had time to _work_ when we get back," Rodney offers, bristling. "But no, I have to show up at Tanan's birthday party rather than actually try and solve the problem of the east-quadrant power supply and – "

"You do not fool me," Radek puts in. "You are crazy for that child."

Rodney hmmphs. "Well. He's – we have a special relationship. I was – "

"There when he was born, yes, yes, we have all heard the story."

Rodney tilts his chin. "And five is a very important year in Athosian culture."

"I read the bulletin you were kind enough to prepare," Radek nods. "Fascinating. So as Minch-Father you will be giving the gift of the owl-toy, no?"

"Yes." Rodney swallows haughtily as he pauses by the DHD, punching in the address for home. "And the Hashkee candies."

"Which you made yourself."

"Look – "

Radek held up his hands in peace. "I am not judging. I will be at the party too."

"With kasha fruit?"

"Exactly."

"Well." Rodney nods tersely. "We should get back then." And he leads the way across the event horizon, stepping into the gateroom on the other side.

There's a whirl of color and movement and sound in front of him. "DAADDDYYYYYYYYYYYY!" Beesha yells, running toward him at full tilt, launching herself up into his arms and smacking a kiss to his cheek. Her beaded braid, hallmark of the Dis'tik, smacks him soundly in the jaw. "You're late!"

"I am?" Rodney asks, feeling clumsy and humbled all over again at the way she loves him so easily.

"Yes, yes, an' Pops said we could wait inna gateroom an' go straight to th'party 'cause you have stuffs and can't help bein' late sometimes an' I made a hat, a party hat for Tanan, an' it has glitter on it what Auntie Jennifer gave me and she says she thinks he'll like it and hi hi hi I missed you," Beesha grins, squeezing Rodney's neck.

Rodney squeezes her back, catches sight of John standing at the far edge of the gate-platform, smiling indulgently at them both. "You," he says, ambling toward him, "are a wholly negligent parent, letting her play in here. What if the gate had gone off and she'd run though it to – "

But John leans in and kisses him, in full sight of god and everyone, right there beneath Sam's office. Beesha squeals happily, promptly deafening Rodney in one ear. "Hi," John smiles when he pulls back. "You're late."

"Hmmm," Rodney nods, feeling his face burn. "Um, sorry. Grapefruit."

John arches an eyebrow. "Wanna hit the lockers? Leave the gun before we hit the party?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," Rodney says, blinking, Beesha twirling her fingers in his hair. "Except I, uh – " And he grabs John's shirt, pulls him in and kisses him again. "Okay, now we can go," he offers when they break apart once more.

"Sure?" John asks.

"C _'mon_ , daddies!" Beesha sighs. "Cake! Uncle Kanaan will eat it _all_ if we dun hurry!"

"You are very smart," Rodney says earnestly, shifting her to his hip, falling into step beside John. "Just like me."

And Beesha laughs with delight.


End file.
